Much Ado About Marcus
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: Marcus is a recently-hired actor in Shakespeare's company, The Lord Chamberlain's Men. During that era, women's roles were played by men, and young girls were often played by the apprentice boys. Because of the popularity of Romeo and Juliet, the play is being re-staged, with Marcus as Romeo. Esca, who has been assigned to him as apprentice, is a very reluctant Juliet. AU 1-shot


Set in Elizabethan England. Marcus and Esca are perhaps a couple of years younger than they were in "The Eagle." Most of the characters—Richard Burbage, John Heminges, Thomas Pope, Will Kempe, etc.—were actual members of the theatre company to which Shakespeare belonged. This story takes place while the company still performed at The Theatre, before the construction of The Globe.  
Marcus is a recently-hired principal actor in Shakespeare's company, The Lord Chamberlain's Men. (During that period, women's roles were played by actors, and youthful female characters were often played by the apprentice boys.) Because of the popularity of Romeo and Juliet, the play is to be re-staged a year after its successful first performance, with Marcus as Romeo. Esca, who has been assigned to him as apprentice, is a very reluctant Juliet.  
**Warnings:** Era-specific, anti-foreigner sentiment

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**MUCH ADO ABOUT MARCUS**

"I don't see the reason," Richard Burbage expostulated, "for doing _Romeo and Juliet_ again."

"It was extremely popular, as you recall," John Heminges replied dryly. "In no small part because you played a handsome youth quite convincingly."

Mr Burbage appeared slightly mollified. "Well…all the same, John, why repeat the play only a year after its first run of performances?"

Esca peered at the two men from the doorway at stage left, faintly curious as to why they appeared to be arguing over the scheduling of upcoming plays. They rarely disagreed on these matters, which was fortunate, since they were both important members and stockholders of the company. Esca eased out onto the stage and ducked behind a pillar, recently erected for a play about some ancient Roman ruler, and stood quietly in its shadow. He was careful to stay out of sight; Mr Burbage, as one of the owners of The Theatre, did not take kindly to apprentices listening in on business conversations among the senior actors.

"As I said, Dick," murmured Mr Heminges. "It was _exceedingly_ popular. Especially with the young folk. You've been basking in the glory of Romeo ever since. As was made clear when you came to supper last week, and even my visiting _mother-in-law_ recognized you."

"Hah!" said Mr Burbage, beginning to look more cheerful. "That was a fine supper, John. And your neighborhood is starting to look quite fashionable, by God…what's that great, red brick house that's gone up at the end of your street?"

"You've never noticed it?" Mr Heminges replied, raising one eyebrow. "It's been there for over a year. Now, then, about the casting for the play—"

"I suppose," grumbled Thomas Pope, appearing suddenly behind them, his toga from yesterday's performance draped over his arm, "I'll have to shave off my beard again and play Juliet's nurse."

"And I," said Mr Burbage with finality, "am not going to be Romeo."

"No," sighed Mr Heminges meditatively, as Esca strained to listen from the shadows and remain invisible at the same time. "Will was thinking of the newest member of our company, who will be here at any moment."

"Not that Ackley...Ackwell...what's his name?" muttered Mr Pope, frowning. "I can't think why everybody else was so set on hiring him. A wretched _Eye_-talian?"

"It's Aquila, and how _appropriate _for Romeo, don't you think? But he's not _really_ Italian. His family was, several generations ago. They're all proper Londoners, now."

"So I should hope," sniffed Mr Pope, looking down his nose. "This company does not employ _foreigners_."

"Honestly, man," Mr Heminges murmured with amusement. "Such hostility! You'd think he was a Frenchman, or a Spaniard."

"All bloody Papists," retorted Mr Pope, scowling. "Well, where is the fellow? These foreigners have no sense of time."

Mr Pope had the ideal actor's voice: loud and booming. It carried across the stage, clear to the other side, even though he was probably of the opinion that he was speaking under his breath. Esca, hearing his comment about "foreigners," winced a little. His own family had come to London from the Scottish Borders only two generations back, and he had no desire to remind Mr Pope of this fact.

"He isn't a foreigner," Mr Heminges was saying patiently. "He's—"

"If you're talking about Marcus Aquila," said the props manager, coming around the corner and nearly impaling Mr Pope with the silver-painted wooden spear tucked under one arm, "he's in the tiring room, talking with Mr Shakespeare. My, but he's a good-sized fellow. Will Mr Burbage's old Romeo costume fit him, I wonder?"

Mr Pope poked the head of the spear away from his chest with an irate finger and marched off, mumbling under his breath about "Foreigners, Frenchies, Eye-talians; what's next, painted savages from the New World?"

"He hasn't an apprentice," the props manager went on, setting the butt of the spear on the floor. "Although it shouldn't be difficult for him to find one; London's swarming with likely lads."

"He can have young Esca," said Mr Heminges calmly, testing the spear's point with his thumb. "That will solve two problems at once," he added absently, and Esca groaned, before remembering that he wasn't supposed to be there and clapping his hand over his mouth.

"Will is of the same opinion," Mr Heminges went on, speaking of course of Mr Shakespeare, not Will Kempe, the company's finest comedic actor. "He and I discussed it earlier, and I believe Marcus has no objection. A good solution, don't you think?" and Esca groaned again.

Esca had been apprenticed to Peter Stiles, one of the older actors in the company, until an unfortunate bout with the ague had caused Mr Stiles to retire from the stage rather earlier than he had planned. Esca hadn't much liked Mr Stiles—a gruff, uncommunicative sort of man with a tendency to cuff his subordinates when he was in his cups—but he had received an adequate amount of training from him, and had eaten and slept in the man's home, in accordance with theatre custom. True, his "room" had been about the size of a cupboard, and used for storage as well as a sleeping place, but who was he to turn up his nose at such accommodations? Now Esca was in need of a place to live as well as a master, but he was of no mind to be handed off like a piece of property to some newcomer with a fancy name, about whom he knew next to nothing.

He hadn't silenced himself quickly enough, it seemed, and Mr Burbage and Mr Heminges squinted in his direction and saw him, half-concealed by that stupid Roman pillar.

"Ah, Esca!" said Mr Burbage jovially, gesturing him over. "Just in time. Come along then; we'll introduce you to Mr Aquila. John and I were just agreeing that he can take you on as apprentice, which will make things much easier for the both of you."

"Oh fuck it!" Esca snarled—to himself—as he followed Mr Burbage into the wings and up the flight of stairs to the tiring room.

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Esca was modest, for an actor (that is to say, he was not excessively conceited), but he was aware that the members of the company were confident he would rise in the ranks of apprentices, and be made a full member of the Lord Chamberlain's Men someday. He would doubtless—once he had a little more experience under his belt—be able to play principal roles, male and female, with skill and style, and, at present, his performances in juvenile female roles were regarded by Mr Shakespeare as exceptional. No, he wasn't soft and round-cheeked and almost daintily pretty, like Mr Augustine Phillips's apprentice, Gil; he was rather small, lean and long-limbed, with a keen, narrow face and sharp jawline. However, when powder covered the close-shaved stubble on his cheeks, his complexion looked as pink and white as any girl's, and he rarely needed a wig, as his thick hair, russet-brown with bronze-blond strands mixed in with the chestnut, could be fashioned with pomade into something resembling a feminine coiffure. He could make his expressive, boyish voice soft and fluting, when necessary, and he knew how to walk and turn so as to minimize his angles and give the impression of delicacy. He had even overheard Mr Shakespeare say that the way he moved was like music.

He had been hoping that he might, in a year, perhaps, be promoted to the status of full-fledged actor and company member. Now it appeared that he was to remain an apprentice for the foreseeable future, and be forced to live in a stranger's home with little money to call his own. The thought of this put Esca into such a miserable state of mind that when Marcus Aquila strode out of the tiring room to meet him, he was met with an unsmiling expression and a stony glare.

Mr Aquila was tall and well-proportioned, muscular yet trim, and, Esca thought with a kind of resignation, undeniably handsome. With a chiseled face, green eyes, full, sensuous lips, and a head of dark hair. He had a natural air of command, an almost military stance, and Esca felt a sudden defiance well up inside him. Why did the man have to be so bloody good-looking? From the time he turned twelve or so, Esca had been aware that his eyes were drawn to men, not women, although he had hidden this very carefully from everybody around him. His few physical encounters and would-be liaisons with other boys had been furtive, sorry affairs; awkward fumblings and gropings in dark places, followed by a kind of painful embarrassment. He knew that there were two or three actors in the company who were probably of the same sort of inclination as himself, although he never let them see that he was what he was. He had no desire to be labeled an unnatural lover, a catamite, especially at such a young age, and God, but it was going to be difficult not to stare at this new company member, with the hunger of one who had been starved for so long. It was just too bloody unfair!

"Marcus," said Mr Burbage in a genial, encouraging voice. "This is young Esca, of whom you've heard. Esca, this is Marcus Aquila, who's to be our next Romeo. He is willing to accept you as apprentice for the season, and can take you home with him after our last performance of _Julius Caesar_, today."*

If Mr Aquila was taken aback by the fierce gaze, the near-sullenness, in his new apprentice's eyes, he made no comment. He looked at Esca levelly, gazing straight into his face, and then turned to leave the tiring room, crooking a finger at his apprentice and saying simply, "Come along then, boy."

"Boy!" grumbled Esca to himself, but took care not to let Mr Aquila hear this, as he followed several paces behind the newest member of the company. He walked rapidly to keep up with him, although he noticed just the faintest hint of a limp in his new patron's gait, and spent the next three hours in the wings, watching the afternoon performance and attempting to ignore the imposing presence standing at his side. When the play was over, he gathered his small bundle of belongings, left the building in the wake of his new instructor, and found the props manager's son standing just outside the theatre door, one hand on the bridle of a tall bay gelding. Well, at least he wouldn't have to _walk_ all the way to wherever it was Marcus Aquila lived.

Instead, he rode to his new residence on the crupper of Mr Aquila's horse, acutely conscious of the strong, broad-shouldered back barely an inch from his front. He had no choice but to hold on to Mr Aquila's waist, and the firmly muscled solidity beneath his hands made him tense and shiver, and hope that the man sitting before him, guiding the horse with confident hands, wasn't aware of this. At the same time, he wondered precisely where it was they were headed.

He had hoped his new master lived in the vicinity of The Theatre. Although it was sometimes described as a harbor for vagrants, wastrels, tavern-goers, and women of easy virtue, Esca was comfortable in Shoreditch, where The Theatre and a second circular theatre building, The Curtain, stood in an open area outside of London's walls, easily accessible from either the Moorgate or Bishopsgate. Several members of the company lived nearby, and there was far more open sky here than in the city, where buildings crowded together on either side of narrow streets. To a country-born lad, the broad expanse of sky and nearby field were a solace after the press of houses, shops, churches, and people within the walls.

Marcus Aquila did not live in Shoreditch. As Esca—who by this time was doing battle with a variety of emotions—might have guessed, he lived in the handsome brick house down the street from Mr Heminges, rather stately with its two chimneys and its narrow walled garden, with square planting beds, in the back. It belonged to his uncle, Mr Aquila explained, but there was plenty of room, and he thought Esca would be comfortable there. As was generally the case with apprentice boys, he would be expected to help with chores about the house; this was made plain by Sassticca, the Aquilas' grim-faced and imposing housekeeper. The chores included bringing in the wood, doing some of the marketing, and seeing to it that Cub, Mr Aquila's massive wolfhound, did not get out of the garden and into other people's kitchens.

Esca was also introduced to Mr Aquila's uncle, a white-bearded gentleman of considerable height and strong frame. He looked singularly unlike most elderly fellows of Esca's acquaintance, and spoke to him far more civilly than Esca had expected from the owner of such an imposing home. He was then turned over to Sassticca, who led him up two flights of stairs to a small but sunny room, which would be Esca's alone. He had been expecting to share the space with a household servant, and was astonished at being given the luxury of a private space. Which he would need, as working with Mr Aquila virtually guaranteed that he would be in need of a wank far more often than usual.

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It twisted Esca's insides to admit it, but Marcus Aquila was an excellent Romeo.

He had been prepared to sneer at the new player's attempts to act a green youth less than twenty, dancing his heart out at the Capulets' ball and falling in love with a girl of thirteen. How was that great lump of a Marcus Aquila going to convince an audience? But Marcus surprised him during their very first rehearsal. As tall, solid, and self-controlled as he was, once onstage he suddenly took on the self-conscious, gawky grace of youth, cast his eyes down in a deferential manner when addressed by his "elders," and exhibited a shy, self-deprecating grin, and boyish chuckle, that spoke volumes.

The rehearsal was going well, although the company skipped haphazardly through the lesser scenes, in order to devote more time to the important ones. Mr Shakespeare, natty in a dark burgundy doublet, a close ruff, and single gold earring, was playing the prince of Verona, but for most of the time he stood in the wings, looking pleased with the way his play was progressing. He also chatted periodically with the props manager, who did double duty as the tiring man, about which costumes they would eventually use. In the meantime the actors—dressed in their street clothes—finished up the first fight scene, brandishing their wooden swords with brio.

Then it was Esca's turn to go onstage as Juliet, with her nurse, so that Lady Capulet could tell her that Count Paris—the clueless idiot—wanted to marry her.

As this was an early rehearsal, scenes were interrupted quite a bit by comments and questions from the actors and explanations by Mr Burbage (as last year's Romeo) and the playwright. Esca, as usual, received a number of compliments, and he glanced surreptitiously at his new mentor, trying to gage his reaction. Marcus Aquila had watched the scene with an eagle eye, but with no change of expression, and he said nothing, to his apprentice's chagrin. By the time they were ready to rehearse the Capulets' ball, and the first meeting of the lovers, Esca was seething inside. So he threw himself into the scene, heart and soul, ferociously determined to make an impression. During the dance, he swung his body lightly in the galliard, lowered his eyes like a shy young girl, the faintest hint of a smile curving his mouth, before raising his eyelids, head cocked to the side, and sliding his pupils in the direction of Romeo, a trick that had never failed to garner praise. The only satisfaction he got, however, was to see Marcus Aquila's eyes open a bit wider before he turned away to say something to the playwright.

And then—_oh_, Esca had forgotten this was coming—he had Esca by the hand and was tugging him to the front of the stage, away from the other actors, and bending over him with such a tender look that Esca forgot his lines and had to be prompted.

"_Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged,_" Mr Aquila murmured, moments later; it was obvious that he already had his lines by heart. He bent lower and his mouth brushed the air millimeters from Esca's lips in a perfect stage kiss.

"_Then have my lips the sin that they have took?_" grated Esca, glowering furiously as he felt the blood rush to his cheeks.

"Esca!" Mr Shakespeare remonstrated gently. "You sound singularly unimpressed. This is meant to be love at first sight, lad."

A few of the other apprentices sniggered, and Esca pressed his lips tightly together so as not to say something untoward.

"Yes, sir," he muttered instead, but as soon as the scene was over, he headed for the wings without waiting for any of the older actors to speak to him.

"Fucking…wretched…Marcus Aquila," he hissed under his breath as he exited the stage, followed by the other Capulet "ladies" and his "nurse."

"Why? What's wrong with him?" inquired Gil—Sam Gilburne—the senior apprentice who had been Juliet the year before. "He seems perfectly nice, to me. And he played that scene very well."

"He's…he's…" said Esca, at a loss for words, but fortunately Gil-who, unlike the others, had chosen to rehearse in his costume-was too busy wrestling with his farthingale and other feminine accoutrements to notice. He knew he wouldn't be able to explain himself. So far, Marcus Aquila had been kind to him, going over dialogue with him in the evenings after supper, making suggestions rather than criticizing harshly. Esca knew apprentices who had been beaten if they forgot their lines or contradicted their masters, but Mr Aquila's demeanor was friendly, if a little reserved, and Esca couldn't imagine him beating a dog, far less his new apprentice—no matter how sullen that apprentice might occasionally appear.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Take a deep breath before you say that last line," Marcus Aquila said that evening, listening to his apprentice run over his final words in Act V. "And remember to lower your head and look desperate; you're about to stab yourself, after all."

Esca had been following Mr Aquila's instructions obediently, but at this he balked. If he were Juliet, he would be defiant in the face of discovery, his—no, her—family's outrage, Friar Laurence's fear. Instead of lowering his head, he tilted his chin upward, eyes bright and rebellious, luminous with unshed tears.

"Oh," said Mr Aquila, looking surprised but not displeased. "That's…hmm. Well, Esca. That might work. You'll show Mr Shakespeare tomorrow."

"Yes sir," Esca replied, forcing the proper degree of deference into his voice, although his stomach was turning somersaults at the proximity of this beautiful man, whose hand, holding his cue sheet, was so close to Esca's own. They had eaten an excellent dinner (Sassticca, for all her roughness, was a superb cook), and were on the settle before the fire in the hall, reading through the last act of the play. Esca ploughed through his final scene dutifully, watching firelight shimmer over the broad, smooth planes of Marcus Aquila's face, and put gold lights into the green of his eyes. It was late, Uncle Aquila had long since gone upstairs, and Esca was dying to get away to his own room, where he could blow out the candle, take himself in hand, and dream about what it might feel like if that hand belonged to the actor sitting beside him.

He stood up abruptly and reached for his cue sheet, just as Mr Aquila extended it. They both staggered forward, a little off-balance, and Mr Aquila's chest made contact with his apprentice's shoulder.

"I am sorry," said Mr Aquila, awkwardly.

"My fault, sir," Esca growled, and slipped past him, hurrying up the stairs. "Good night," he remembered to say, before he reached the first landing, and heard the ghost of a chuckle and a half-whispered "Good night," from below.

Later, after the rhythmic clutch of his fingers had given him relief, Esca allowed himself to wonder about Marcus Aquila. He knew all too well what most people thought of men and boys who made do with…men and boys. Pastors thundered against that sort of desire from the pulpit. According to many, it was a hellish sin. Naturally, everybody in the company knew that _things_ occasionally happened between men, but nobody spoke of it. There was even that rumor about Will Shakespeare and the long-haired, handsome Henry, Earl of Southampton, to whom he had written some sort of epic poem, but no one had ever joked about it to Mr Shakespeare, and he certainly gave no sign that it might be true…as it probably wasn't. So there wasn't any way that Esca was going to give away his secret to the man who was offering him house-room, no matter how generous he had been with his time and instruction. Mr Aquila's generosity surely had everything to do with his sense of honor about what was due to an apprentice, and had nothing to do with Esca himself. He wasn't married, but that didn't mean he didn't have a mistress tucked away somewhere, to whom he could devote his energies when he wasn't at work at The Theatre.

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Three days later, they had a dress rehearsal, and Esca donned Juliet's skirts for the first time.

He was word perfect by now, and had steeled himself for every episode in which he had Marcus Aquila had to embrace. In Juliet's balcony scene, and the scene in which the lovers part after spending the night together, Esca had to brace himself for the touch of Mr Aquila's hands on his waist, the light press of his chest against Esca's, the brush of those full, curving lips against his hand, or his shoulders, or the air a hair's breadth away from his mouth. For the first time in his career as a budding actor, he was grateful for the voluminous gown that hid his aching arousal from everyone but himself.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite this good. Among the boy players, that is. My God, he's like a changeling," Marcus Aquila said to Mr Shakespeare at the close of the rehearsal. He had gotten up off the flimsy bier where he had been feigning death quite convincingly, and didn't seem to realize that his apprentice was in hearing distance.

"Yes," said Mr Shakespeare in a ruminative voice, chewing on the end of his quill. "He's a gifted lad."

"Not very talkative,though, is he?" Mr Aquila went on, frowning a little. "Stonefaced. Sullen. I don't know what I've done to offend him. No matter…he's a good apprentice, an excellent student, and certainly makes a fine Juliet."

"Juliet" gritted her teeth as she stomped backstage and up the stairs to the tiring room, to turn her gown and feather fan over to the props master.

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The week before the first performance of _Romeo and Juliet_, Esca was sitting up alone in the hall, going over his lines. Uncle Aquila had gone to bed early, after an early supper, but it was still light outside, and birds were still shrilling in the garden. Sassticca was giving the flower beds a good watering, and Marcus Aquila's supper was keeping warm for him in the kitchen. Esca was beginning to think that Mr Aquila was visiting a mistress after all—he had stayed late at The Theatre before, but never this late—when the subject of his musings burst through the door and sank down onto the settle, one hand on his right thigh. It was then that Esca saw, to his horror, that his hose was dark red with blood, and that more blood was dripping onto the rushes.

"Mr Aquila," Esca whispered, amazed to find that his voice, usually so level and cool when he spoke to this man, was actually shaking.

"You may call me Marcus, Esca," Mr Aquila replied unexpectedly, with what looked like the beginnings of a grin. "And don't look so frightened, lad."

"Mr…er, Marcus." Esca tried again. "You're hurt."

"Ah, it's nothing. A scratch. A thief, coming across Shoreditch; he was after my cloak, I daresay. He had a knife, but I dodged it, and tripped him up, and off he ran with a good kick up his arse."

Marcus stood up and took an experimental step towards the fireplace, and back again.

"But you're bleeding, and, er, limping."

"I was wounded in this leg once before. A border skirmish, against some raiders. I don't know if the fools were English or Scots; all I know is that they were after my neighbors' property. That was a year before I came to London, to stay with my uncle."

Esca, whose family had once belonged to the Scottish side of the border, knew all about such skirmishes, but he said nothing.

"It could have been worse. It's not deep, just bloody," Marcus continued, wincing slightly as he sat down.

"I'll dress it for you," said Esca, his voice still shaking, and went to fetch hot water, some salve, and bandages.

Together they stripped off Marcus' torn and bloodstained hose, and Esca washed, salved, and dressed the wound with hands that were shaking nearly as badly as his voice was. The wound was, in fact, bloody but not deep, and, once bandaged, seemed to give Marcus little trouble. It was far less serious than his earlier injury must have been; Esca could see the jagged scar tissue on the same leg, a little lower down. He wiped the last of the blood from Marcus' thigh, and blushed, but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate on what he was doing, his glance strayed to the strong, handsome modeling of his master's legs and hips, the pale olive sheen of his skin, the outline of his manhood beneath the damp hem of his linen shirt.

He ducked his head in a feeble attempt to hide his reddened cheeks, and the ardor of his gaze, and then—oh, no, no, no—felt a hand cup his chin and gently lift his face. Marcus was staring at him seriously and consideringly, taking in his guilty blush, the look in his eyes, the breath coming quickly between his parted lips. It was too late to take refuge behind the fierce, sullen mask he usually wore; Esca closed his eyes and clenched his fists, trembling, as Marcus bent over him as he had so many times in rehearsal. Esca kept his eyes tightly shut as Marcus' warm breath drifted over his cheek, and then he felt the careful pressure of those full, firm lips against his mouth. Before Marcus could draw away, Esca gave a little moan and kissed back.

Several minutes later, they eased their mouths apart and Marcus raised his head, put his hand on Esca's shoulder, and sighed.

"You're aware, of course, that if this were known about me, people would say I was a God-cursed sodomite."

A sad little laugh escaped Esca's lips, and he spoke very quietly, looking at the floor.

"As they would about me. If they knew that I…how I much I…" he began. Then he heard Sassticca's loud grumbling and heavy step in the hall as she brought in Marcus' supper, and leaped to his feet, retreating to the garden and the turmoil of his own thoughts.

Light was fading; it was nearly dark, when Esca heard Marcus come out of the house and walk across the garden towards him, taking pains not to squash the cabbages. He himself had been standing there for what felt like hours, leaning his elbows on the brick wall at the bottom of the garden, breathing in the scents of the bean vines, and the moist earth. He was not prepared for the hand that came to rest lightly on his shoulder, nor for his own body's almost instant response.

"Are you…does it still hurt?" he asked feebly, leaning forward against the chilly brick barrier, in an attempt to conceal the fact that his prick had suddenly gone upright and alert.

"No…not really," Marcus responded quietly. "Sassticca fetched some hot water, and I had a bathe and put on a new bandage. There's fresh water in the kitchen, if you'd like one. A bath, I mean. I think you deserve one, after your assistance of this evening."

The thought of a good wash—a real one—was so irresistible that Esca turned round and smiled. It would also give him a little longer, a bit more of a respite, before he had to face Marcus alone again. So he marched into the kitchen, where Sassticca had set up the bathing things, closing the door firmly behind him. The kitchen was warm; there was a fire in the hearth, and the room was empty save for Cub, who was sprawled on the floor, basking in the heat. Sassticca had thrown out Marcus' bath water and refilled the little wooden tub—a large barrel, with the upper portion sawn off—with hot water. A small sachet of dried lavender bobbed about merrily in the steam. It looked so inviting that Esca flung off his clothing and climbed in without any further ado.

It was so seldom that Esca got to bathe properly that he felt a grin spreading across his face as he relaxed and let his head fall back against the rough wood. Oh, a good scrubbing with a flannel now and then had to do, and from time to time he went swimming in a nearby pond with some of the lads from the theater, but a _proper_ bath, with hot water…well, that was a luxury. After making use of the slippery lump of brown soap, and then washing his tousled hair, he leaned back for a second time, eyes half closed. He knew he should review his lines, or at least think about the play, but it wasn't possible; the warmth of the water had suddenly become a lascivious caress against his body, and when he heard the light knock at the door, he gasped out, "Yes, yes, come in," and watched Marcus Aquila cross the flagstones.

Before Marcus even reached him, Esca stood up, water running in rivulets down his pale chest and his strong, slender legs, and Marcus reached out with a towel and enfolded him. Even then, he wasn't hurried or rough; he waited until Esca had stepped out of the tub, and then rubbed and patted him dry with the heavy cloth, taking his time, letting Esca get used to his touch. The rough folds of the towel slid up between Esca's thighs and he gave a little whimper, unable to help himself, and then they were kissing, as they had earlier, only this time more deeply and slowly, with tongues and a delicate play of teeth. Esca was not quite certain how they got from the firelit warmth of the kitchen to the chilly darkness of Marcus' bedroom on the second floor, but the chill was soon dissipated by the press of their bodies together, the heat of skin sliding against skin, and hands curling gently, then more roughly, around each other. It became obvious to both of them that neither had done this properly before, at least not in a bed, with plenty of time in which to explore the various possibilities, but that didn't seem to matter. They brought each other off with their hands, the first time, but the second time, Esca reached for the tallow candle, and slicked Marcus' fingers with it; then pulled Marcus to him and lay still, a little tense but quivering with desire, as Marcus slowly stretched and then breached him, anointing himself with the tallow before sliding into him. Esca bit his lips so as not to cry out—Uncle Aquila slept two chambers away—and endured the burning pain, only to cry out later (muffling the sound against his palm) when pleasure took over, quite surpassing the pain in its intensity. They spent almost simultaneously, backs and hips arching, arms and legs locked together, mouths taut against each others' skin.

"I think, Esca," Marcus whispered meditatively, a while later, when they were tangled together under the featherbed. "I think this might add a certain spice to our performance next week, wouldn't you suppose?"

"And is that all," Esca growled, untangling his fingers from Marcus' hair, "that you have to say?"

He heard Marcus chuckle into the dark. "Yes," he replied quietly, a glint of humor beneath the calm of his voice. "Except to say that I love you. But then, you know that."

Even later, they fell to laughing uncontrollably, after Esca intoned, "_From forth the fatal loins of these two foes_," in sepulchral tones, and had to stifle their roars in the featherbed.

* * *

***Actually, **_**Julius Caesar**_** was probably written after ****_Romeo and Juliet_****.**


End file.
